


Strangers in a Familiar Land

by Shiny_n_new



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_n_new/pseuds/Shiny_n_new
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trip to Tevinter was supposed to secure diplomatic relations between the Archon and the Inquisition. In theory, it would be easy, even boring.</p>
<p>Naturally, things went to shit before the week was out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers in a Familiar Land

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FYeahCullrian Minibang on Tumblr, with the prompt "gifts." [Art](http://fyeahcullrian.tumblr.com/post/129506186345/strangers-in-a-familiar-land-cullrian-mini-bang) by actualvarric on Tumblr!
> 
> The story takes place after the Inquisition's main game, but roughly a year before the Trespasser DLC.

Cullen had not wanted to go to Tevinter, vital diplomatic mission or no. He’d told the Inquisitor this as politely-but-firmly as possible. He’d reasoned that surely someone else could go in his stead, which is when Cadash had sighed deeply.

“Do you want me to send Cassandra on a diplomatic mission?” she had asked, in a tone of profound despair.

Cullen could see her point. He may have hated Halamshiral because it was unfamiliar, but Cassandra had hated it because it was terribly familiar, and that was a hatred that went much deeper. She would be miserable in Tevinter’s court and not shy about hiding it. “No, but-”

“Good!” Cadash had said, brightening immediately. “Then it’s settled.”

And unfortunately for Cullen, it had indeed been settled, because none of the Inquisitor’s other companions were suitable for the trip. Solas had well and truly vanished, sending Iron Bull would have been seen as an insult, Blackwall was a criminal, Sera was…Sera, and attempting to explain diplomacy to Cole was an exercise in futility.

Varric had, with much haranguing, agreed to go on behalf of both the Merchant’s Guild and the Inquisition, and Vivienne had actually _volunteered_ to make the trip, but neither of them could serve as representatives of the Inquisition’s military might. And so it was that Cullen found himself traveling along the Imperial Highway, feeling hot, irritable, and slightly terrified. 

He was going to Minrathous. _Minrathous_ , the city of boogeymen in every story southern Templars told themselves. A place where mages ran wild, magic was uncontained, and normal people were forced to either accept it or be ground into the dirt. It was a city where magic ruled man rather than serving him. Meredith Stannard likely would have had a rage-triggered aneurysm upon seeing its spires. Cullen was just trying not to have a panic attack.

“You look about how I feel,” came a voice from his side, and Cullen turned to find Dorian riding beside him, staring at him with those far-too-inquisitive eyes.

“You feel like you’re about to vomit?” Cullen asked.

“I would never do something so gauche in public, but yes.” Dorian sighed. “When I left Tevinter, some part of me hoped to never come back. Of course, all the other parts of me that value things like ‘culture’ and ‘civilization’ and ‘a proper climate’ are quite pleased right now.”

Cullen snorted. “Proper climate. I’m sweating so much that I could be wrung out like a towel.”

“Your delicate constitution may not be prepared for the heat,” Dorian said, with an expression of mock-seriousness that made Cullen laugh despite himself.

He was glad Dorian was here, even if Dorian wasn’t terribly thrilled about it. He _trusted_ Dorian, as unimaginable as that would have been when they had first met three years ago. They had fought side-by-side and back-to-back too many times for Cullen not to put his trust in the mage. The small moments in between battles certainly didn’t hurt either. Three years of chess and training the Inquisition’s troops and drinking with the Iron Bull…there was great affection there, and something stronger that Cullen had not yet been brave enough to analyze fully. The point of it all, though, was that there was no one Cullen would rather have at his back going into Tevinter.

Not that he was going to tell Dorian that. The preening would be unbearable.

Night fell, and the caravan made camp in the tall yellow grass alongside the Imperial Highway. They were only half a day’s ride from the constellation of smaller towns and cities that surrounded Minrathous; with any luck, the three dozen or so members of the caravan would be able to sleep in real beds tomorrow night. 

After making one final loop around the camp to ensure that it was as secure as possible, Cullen returned to his tent. He found Dorian waiting there.

“Hello, Commander,” Dorian said cheerily, halfway through setting up the chess set. “You’re looking a little less damp.”

“Wait until the sun rises,” Cullen said, sitting down across from Dorian. “I’ll be disgusting again in no time at all. I didn’t realize you’d brought this.”

“I hadn’t expected to use it, since I knew we’d both be dreadfully busy the entire trip, but…well, we’ll have arrived in Minrathous before the week is out. I thought I might spend some time doing something I actually enjoy.”

“You enjoy being beaten at chess?”

“Says the man forced to surrender some of his prized Fereldan ale not three weeks ago.”

“If by ‘prized’ you mean ‘the fairly average ale I was saving for my hypothetical day off’, then yes, you won it,” Cullen said, hiding a smile behind his hand and pushing a pawn forward. “But I’ll win it back, along with some of your fancy Antivan wine.”

“That Antivan wine was a gift from Josephine, she’ll be terribly cross if you take it from me.”

The banter came easily, a soothing counterpoint to Cullen’s jangling nerves. Hopefully, it soothed Dorian as well. 

Cullen studied him under the guise of deciding his next move. Dorian didn’t have many physical tells, which made sense for someone raised in Tevinter’s version of the Great Game. The best way to gauge his mood was to observe his behavior over a few days, but Cullen was far from adept at it. Cadash was better and Bull was somehow an expert, but neither of them was here to advise him. Still, he knew enough to know Dorian was nervous.

Cullen was unsure what had driven Dorian from Tevinter in the first place. Oh, he had the broad strokes: a severe and very personal disagreement with his father combined with a general disgust towards Tevinter culture. Dorian had never shared the details with him, and he had never asked. If Dorian wanted him to know, he would know. 

Some hurts went too deep to be shared with the world, or even with dear friends.

Still, Cullen wouldn’t sit back and watch Dorian squirm, not if there was something he could do about it. Fingers toying with his king, he said, “Any plans to take advantage of this opportunity? Being back in Tevinter, I mean.”

“I plan to stuff myself with food and drink, and wallow in the glory of being amidst proper civilization,” Dorian said, smirking.

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I mean you’ve talked often about wanting to change things in Tevinter. You’ve a network of similarly-minded contacts. Perhaps this might be a good opportunity to meet in person and take stock of things.”

Dorian stroked his mustache, not meeting Cullen’s eyes as he stared down at the board. “Perhaps.” He was silent for a long moment, then he sighed and let his shoulders slump just slightly. “It is hypocritical, isn’t it? Calling for reform in Tevinter when I’ve all but abandoned the place.”

Cullen straightened, startled. “That’s not what I said, or what I think.”

“No, it’s what _I_ think,” Dorian replied, his expression uncharacteristically severe. “I talk often about what needs to change in Tevinter, and it’s nothing but talk right now. If I’m to fix anything, I can’t be an exile forever.”

“Are you--are you planning to stay in Tevinter, then?” Cullen asked. The thought made his stomach twist, and then he immediately chastised himself for being selfish. His…interest in Dorian was no reason to ask him to stay, especially if Dorian’s heart was set on doing something for the greater good.

“Would that bother you, Commander?” Dorian asked, tilting his head just slightly.

Cullen gazed at the board rather than at Dorian, watching the shadows cast by the firelight flicker and dance. He wanted to be honest with Dorian, since he surely owed the man that much. At the same time, he desperately didn’t want to embarrass himself. He was very, very good at embarrassing himself.

So with a light tone and a serious expression, Cullen said, “Well, I’d hate to lose my favorite chess partner.”

Dorian smiled at him, the firelight casting warm tones of orange and yellow across his face. “Well then, it might please you to know that you can look forward to being soundly beaten for at least a few more months. I’d like to use this mission to test the waters. My grand homecoming will be considerably more stylish, and I’ll need time to prepare.”

Cullen beamed at Dorian, unable to help himself. For the rest of their game, the warmth he felt had nothing to do with the temperature.

***

Minrathous was a wonder. A somewhat menacing and foreboding wonder, but a wonder nonetheless. 

It was easy to see why the city had never fallen. Situated on an island and connected to the mainland by one long, lone bridge, Minrathous was invulnerable to any attacks from the land. Magic kept it equally invulnerable to attacks from the sea, and even legions of Qunari dreadnoughts had failed to bring it down. Even from afar, its jet black spires were intimidating, stabbing upwards to dizzying heights. 

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Dorian said, pulling his own horse alongside Cullen’s. He had been unusually silent in the hours since Minrathous’ spires had come into view, but now, on the verge of entering the city, he seemed to be forcing himself to rally. “The city houses the oldest examples of human architecture in all of Thedas. We practically have to beat the archaeologists from other countries away.”

“Dorian, I had heard a fascinating rumor, and I wonder if you might confirm it for me?” Vivienne, as usual, was immaculate and slightly terrifying, even after being on the road for weeks. The twisting ‘horns’ of her helmet gleamed in the sunlight. “Is it true that the majority of Minrathous’ oldest sections are held together by magic alone? An incredible feat, to be sure, although it’s a shame that the stone is too old and crumbling to stand on its own.”

Dorian grinned at her, sharp and rakish. “Completely true, Madame. If anything in Orlais were old enough, you would encounter the same problems. Fortunately for your mages, Orlais is practically a squalling infant compared to Tevinter.”

Varric, riding in a cart attached to Cullen’s horse (“Riding? No thanks, Curly. Just chauffeur me.”), had been scribbling down everything he saw with a frantic air. He finally looked up from his parchment to say, “Not that your bickering isn’t fun for me to listen to, but this might not be the best time for a game of More Magic Than Thou.”

Dorian laughed. “Nonsense. More Magic Than Thou is Tevinter’s favorite pastime.” 

The road into Minrathous was packed with people, carts, and animals, slowing their progress to a crawl. Cullen was thankful that the bridge was divided into two lanes for incoming and outgoing travelers, since otherwise the sheer mass of bodies would have been practically motionless. With little to do, Cullen fell into a relaxed observation of everything around him.

For the most part, the road into Minrathous could have been any busy road in Thedas. Merchants kept a close eye on their wares, traveling companions exchanged good-natured insults, and the horses and occasional druffalo pulling carts gleefully shit in the street, heedless of the people behind them. Still, scanning the crowds made something deep in Cullen’s gut uneasy. It was only close examination that finally revealed what had been niggling at him: the collars.

Some were simple leather affairs, others were elaborate art pieces of glittering metal and gems. They rested around the necks of nearly every elf that Cullen could see, and many of the humans as well. Runes were plainly visible on many of them, and Cullen didn’t need to be a mage to recognize spells of binding and tracking. 

The road into Minrathous was full of slaves.

Cullen tried to keep from scowling and failed miserably. They weren’t here to free the slaves, and no grandiose fantasy of gathering them all into the cart and making a run for the border was going to change that. Even if Inquisition could free every slave on the bridge, it would be nothing but a raindrop in the vast, wretched ocean of Tevinter’s slave class. He was being foolish, and he forced himself to relax his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Maker, it was upsetting, though. Especially the sheer number of elven slaves, with stooped backs and tired smiles. The elves were far from equal in the southern Thedas, but at least they didn’t have collars glimmering at their necks. Cullen thought despairingly of the elves he’d known-

-Surana, with her loud, infectious laugh and effortless skill-

-Orsino, with sharp eyes and a calm, steadfast nature that seemed impossibly at odds with his terrible end-

-Fenris, suspicious, with the evidence of the dangers of magic literally tattooed onto his skin, and yet still utterly loyal to his friends-

-Solas, vanished like a ghost, his things sitting in Skyhold untouched as if he might walk in and reclaim them any day-

-and tried to imagine them reduced to this. Or in Fenris’ case, forced back into it. It made the bile rise in his throat.

“Steady on, Curly,” Varric murmured from behind him. “Nothing we can do right now besides make a scene and get ourselves kicked out of the country.”

“Am I so obvious?” Cullen asked ruefully, turning to look back at Varric.

“You’re so tense that your shoulders are around your ears, so yes.”

By the time they finally reached the end of the bridge, Cullen had forced his expression into something resembling neutrality. A diplomat was waiting for them atop one of the marble pavilions that decorated the massive central square, and Dorian edged his horse forward to the front of the caravan.

“Altus Pavus,” the diplomat said, executing a complex and fluttery bow. Although his fashion was a little less…spikey than that of the Venatori mages the Inquisition had captured, even Cullen could see the similarities in styles. It was not especially reassuring. “On behalf of the Archon and the Magisterium, we are happy to welcome the Inquisition to the jewel of the Imperium.”

Dorian gave a short bow of his own. “And the Inquisition is delighted to be here.” He sounded sincere, if not enthusiastic.

“I understand your party will be staying in the Pavus estates?”

“Of course,” Dorian said, offering a wide smile. “What’s the point in having an estate if you cannot invite three dozen of your closest friends over?”

***

“Maker’s breath.”

The Pavus estate was not the biggest or grandest building that Cullen had ever seen, but knowing that Dorian would one day _own_ it made the entire thing seem almost unbelievable. It had five floors, for Andraste’s sake, and everything was bedecked in gold and marble and onyx. There were towers, actual _towers_ , flanking the estate like two tall, elaborate bodyguards. The complex, bejeweled black metalwork that made up the front gates (stylized to look like two dragons rearing) probably cost more than Cullen would ever make in his entire life.

“You’re gaping, Commander,” Dorian said, striding alongside Cullen as they walked through the carefully cultivated gardens at the front of the house. Twining vines dotted with massive blue flowers arched over their heads like a fragrant ceiling, shading them from the hot Tevinter sun. “Did you not live somewhere similar when you were a boy?”

Cullen snorted and nudged Dorian with his shoulder. “I shared a room with my brother, Branson. We shared a bed until I hit my growth spurt and Father finally built us bunks so that I could sleep without my feet hanging off the edge.” Nearby, one of the peacocks that apparently freely strolled the grounds gave a loud trill. “Also, our peacocks were a little smaller. And they were less colorful. And they would occasionally be eaten by foxes. Our peacocks were actually chickens.”

By the end of it, Dorian was laughing, hiding his smile behind his hand. It was the first real, unburdened laughter that Cullen had seen from him since they had entered Minrathous. He was glad that he could be the one to make Dorian happy, even if it was only for a brief time.

Maker, he was so besotted that it was embarrassing.

Dorian shot him a mischievous look and said, “Well, if it would help you feel more at home, we could always share a bed.”

Right on cue, Cullen blushed so hard that even the tips of his ears were bright red. But rather than continue teasing Cullen, which was Dorian’s usual habit, the mage suddenly looked troubled. His expression grew serious and stiff. In a strained tone that tried and failed to sound normal, Dorian added, “Er, apologies.”

Baffled, Cullen began to say, “No, Dorian, it’s f-”

“With any luck, my parents will have obeyed my wishes and stayed in Qarinus,” Dorian continued, shutting down Cullen’s fumbling reassurance firmly. “They’re very tiresome, and I would rather not have a shouting match in front of all of you. Terribly rude.”

Dorian’s parents, were, of course, waiting for them in the vast room that served as a foyer for the estate. The floor was white marble, shot through with veins of black and gold, and it was polished so brightly that it gleamed. There was an honest-to-Andraste _fountain_ in the center of the room, composed of two intertwined dragons breathing water instead of fire. Cullen abruptly felt very, very shabby. It was one thing to know that Dorian’s family was wealthy, but actually seeing it was something else entirely.

If Varric and Vivienne were similarly impressed, they better at hiding it. They stood at Cullen’s side with polite expressions, as if they were not watching a profoundly strained family reunion unfold in front of them.

“I believe I asked you to stay at home,” Dorian said, arms crossed over his chest and a snarl across his face. “I even said ‘please,’ which should have been indication enough that I was serious.”

Dorian’s father ( _Halward Pavus_ , Cullen’s memory filled in, drawing from Leliana’s reports, _magister, Lord of Asariel, well-respected, powerful both magically and politically, became notably more outspoken against the Venatori when it became clear Dorian was not returning to Tevinter any time soon_ ) said nothing, his expression calm but pained. It did not escape Cullen’s notice that he was very deliberately giving Dorian his space, stepping back slightly whenever his son moved forward.

Dorian’s mother was less reserved, and had greeted him by sweeping him forward into a hug and kissing him on both cheeks. The marked stiffness in Dorian’s posture did nothing to deter her. “We haven’t seen you for _years_ , Dorian. Did you truly expect us to just sit in Qarinus and hope all was well?”

“It’s what I _wanted_ you to do,” Dorian said, biting out the words through gritted teeth, “so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. What I want has never been a particular consideration for the two of you.”

Halward flinched minutely, but Dorian’s mother ( _Aquinea Thalrassian, also from a powerful family with holdings on Tevinter’s southern border, served as a high-ranking officer in the military before her marriage_ ) simply smiled, her expression as stiff as Dorian’s posture. “Don’t be silly, Dorian. You can’t imagine we would pass on the chance to meet your new friends.”

Then Aquinea was looking at them, at Cullen, and his feeling of shabbiness increased one hundred percent.

The next few minutes were a blur of polite introductions, with everyone pretending that Dorian and his parents hadn’t been on the verge of a truly vicious quarrel only a few seconds ago. Just like on the bridge, Cullen did his best to keep a neutral expression. These were his hosts, and Dorian’s parents. A vaguely positive first impression would be helpful.

The Pavus Estate had expansive guest quarters, naturally, and Cullen quickly escaped the suffocating tension of the foyer to oversee the members of the caravan. Most of them were simple soldiers, like him, and gawked at nearly everything they saw. Even the plainer rooms with bunked beds and wooden floors were still overwhelmingly elegant. The diplomats of the caravan were a bit more used to fine accommodations, but it was clear from their hushed whispers and wandering eyes that they were also impressed. None of them had quite understood just how wealthy and powerful Dorian’s family really was until they had seen the evidence firsthand.

_And Dorian gave it all up to come south_ , Cullen mused, leaning against railing of the courtyard and watching the soldiers unpack their supplies. The trip wasn’t meant to last more than a few days, and so they were fortunate enough to be travelling light. Still, the weight of the wagons dug ruts into the grass, making him wince. It was like being in Halamshiral all over again, afraid to touch anything or sit on any of the furniture.

“Commander,” murmured a cultured voice from behind him, and Cullen turned to find Halward Pavus approaching him. 

Cullen had not had much of a chance to take stock of the man, distracted as he’d been by the almost physical tension between Dorian and his parents. Halward was dressed in robes of gold and red, the fabric light and probably well-suited for the Tevinter heat. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and from up close, Cullen could see the similarities to Dorian. They had the same jawline, the same even brow.

But beyond the resemblance to Dorian, Cullen also noticed the staff on Halward’s back and his easy confidence, which spoke of power and quite a lot of it. A Tevinter magister, through and through. The Templar in Cullen, never completely quiet, wanted to hiss and spit and reach for a weapon. Instead, Cullen just smiled blandly.

“Magister Pavus. You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.” Halward came to stand beside Cullen at the railing, studying the caravan parked in his courtyard. “I hope the journey here was safe? Dorian did not mention any particular troubles, but…”

Halward let the sentence trail off very deliberately, and Cullen realized this was something like a test. The magister wanted to see how he reacted, but Cullen wasn’t sure of the reason behind it.

“The trip was uneventful,” Cullen replied, crossing his arms. “I believe most of the bandits near the border have been distracted by those Avaar tribesman who have taken up residence.”

“Ah, yes. Rumor has it that the Inquisitor herself sent them into Tevinter.”

“I’ve heard that rumor as well,” Cullen said. “In truth, she simply ordered them off Inquisition land. Their destination afterwards was none of our concern, due to much larger problems.”

Not quite true, and Cullen knew for a fact that it was discreetly delivered Inquisition supplies keeping Movran the Under and his tribe drunk and happy in Tevinter lands. But this was not a conversation meant to be truthful.

Halward nodded. “That is good to know. The South can be quite hostile towards Tevinter, and I would like to know that the Inquisition is not similarly prejudiced.”

“The Inquisition is full of mages,” Cullen said. “The Inquisitor brought the rebel mages into the fold as allies and equals.” _As opposed to the Tevinter magister who was planning to enslave them_ went unspoken. 

The corner of Halward’s mouth quirked up just slightly, and that too was startlingly reminiscent of Dorian. “Of course, of course. A father simply worries. Forgive me, but you can imagine my concern when I learned that Dorian had joined an organization whose troops were led by a Templar.”

Cullen stiffened. “I am not a Templar!” Damn, that had come out so much more defensively then he’d intended. In a calmer tone, he added, “The Templar Order has been disbanded, so technically, none of the Inquisition’s troops are Templars any longer.”

“Ah, but a lifetime of Templar training and Southern prejudice cannot simply fade away so quickly.” Halward’s expression was intense and dark. The façade that their conversation was a normal, polite one was rapidly fading away, replaced by something that felt unpleasantly like the double-talk of the Great Game. “We have heard that Southern Templars are far quicker to kill apprentice mages, for example. You must have attended many Harrowings, Commander. Is that true?”

Cullen’s patience ran out abruptly, and he snapped, “Yes, I’ve killed many mages. Many abominations, many demons, many maleficarum. I’ve also killed Red Templars and rebel Templars by the score, and bandits, and Carta dwarves, and Maker knows what else. The Inquisition is building something new, something where mages and Templars can work side by side without having to be terrified of each other! You may think we’re barbarians, but _we_ are the ones trying to change things!”

Oh. Oh Maker, he’d just shouted at Dorian’s father. While that would no doubt delight Dorian, it would probably delight the Inquisitor and Josephine far less if Pavus chose to toss them all out on their ears because of Cullen. But Halward actually _relaxed_ , like Cullen had reassured him of something.

“Good.” He actually favored Cullen with a nod, his entire demeanor more sincere than it had been. “It is good to know that the mages of the Inquisition are safe.”

It was then that Cullen realized that this entire conversation had been Halward’s roundabout way of asking after Dorian’s safety. _Andraste’s ass, can no one simply be direct anymore?_

“Yes, the Inquisition mages are safe,” Cullen said, raising an eyebrow. “Dorian is especially safe, unless our librarians decide to kill him for hoarding too many of the books.” That made Halward smile, just a little, and Cullen continued, “He’s likely safer at Skyhold than he is in Tevinter-”

There was that flinch again, small and nearly impossible to notice if Cullen had not been looking directly at Halward. What was the story there? What exactly had happened between Dorian and his father?

Cullen continued as if he hadn’t noticed a thing. “-especially if the rumors of the Ventatori regrouping are true.”

Halward looked out over the grounds of his estate, his demeanor once more calm and entirely steady in a way Dorian had yet to master. After a moment of silence, he said, “They are.”

Ignoring Cullen’s startled look, Halward continued, “My network of informants is not so large, but it is large enough to know there is blood in the water.” He glanced at Cullen, his dark eyes sharp. “You are here to curry favor with the Archon and Magisterium, but we may have need of the Inquisition’s mage-killing talents. Be wary, Commander.”

And then Halward was gone in a sweep of robes, retreating deeper into the mansion as if the entire conversation hadn’t been absolutely mad.

***  
The guest quarters were as sumptuous as the rest of the estate, all rich velvet and elaborate woodwork. Cullen was unsurprised that Dorian had chosen to take a room there rather than stay in his own rooms. As the estate settled down for the night, Cullen headed across the hall to knock on Dorian’s door. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, exactly, but he sensed that Dorian might need the company.

There was silence on the other side of the door, and Cullen called out, “Dorian? Are you asleep?”

Dorian’s answer was immediate. “No, no, come in. Just unpacking.”

“If you hadn’t packed enough clothing for an entire legion, that might be easier,” Cullen said as he opened the door. He narrowly dodged the pillow Dorian tossed at him, laughing as he caught it. “Oh, you know it’s true!”

“Just because you’re perfectly content to wear the same rags every day, it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be,” Dorian sniffed. Cullen could see that he was fighting a smile.

The contents of Dorian’s saddlebags were currently piled on the bed. As Cullen suspected, there were more clothes than one person could possibly wear in week. But there was also a bundle of utterly ancient looking books, a glow of magic still lingering on them.

“What are these?”

“Hmm? Oh, those are the Inquisition’s gifts for the Archon,” Dorian said, straightening out a pair of rich blue robes. “Cadash pulled them out of some old Tevinter ruin. They apparently predate the First Blight.”

“Why are we giving the Archon gifts?” Cullen asked, sitting on Dorian’s bed. This was not strictly necessary; there were several rather cozy armchairs scatter across the room. But Cullen would take his small pleasures where he could find them. “We didn’t bring Celene gifts. Thank the Maker, too, or we might have been at the Winter Palace even longer.”

“We’re three days away from the Feast of Dragons,” Dorian said, as if that was perfectly self-explanatory. “It would have been rude not to bring something.”

“The Feast of Dragons?” As ominous names went, that one was ranked quite high.

“Oh, I keep forgetting none of you celebrate it.” Dorian waved a hand dismissively. “Back in the ancient ages, it was supposedly when mages would bring gifts to the Old Gods to secure their blessings. Assorted treasures for Dumat, jewels and fine art for Urthemiel, that sort of thing. These days, it’s an excuse give gifts to people you respect or care for. It’s actually quite fun if done right, there are festivals in Qarinus themed around each Old God. The one for Toth is particularly colorful, although scores of people are accidentally burned every year. Drunks and fire rarely mix well.”

Before he could think better of it, Cullen asked, “Why didn’t you tell us about it earlier? I would have gotten you something.”

Dorian’s looked simultaneously surprised and smug in a very cat-like way. Cullen wasn’t able to examine the full details of it because he was blushing so hard that he had to look down at the bedspread. Curse his idiot brain.

“Minrathous never lacks for open markets,” Dorian said, hanging up the robes he was holding and coming to sit beside Cullen. “There’s always time to pick something delightful up for me.”

“You’re impossible to shop for,” Cullen said, nudging Dorian with his shoulder. They were sitting close enough that he could feel the heat coming off the mage’s skin. “Not as bad as Vivienne, but close.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian said, angling himself so that he was facing Cullen. Like a flower turning towards the sun, Cullen shifted as well so that he could look Dorian in the eye. “I’m a simple mage of simple tastes. Good wine, good food, handsome men.”

“No shortage of those here.” That came out considerably breathier than Cullen had planned, but he was sitting on Dorian’s bed, for the Maker’s sake. 

“A very large concentration of them in this bedroom, in fact.” Dorian leaned closer and Cullen’s eyes closed. Yes, this was what he wanted, this was what he’d been hoping for-

He felt Dorian shift _backwards_ , the wrong direction, and opened his eyes in confusion. Dorian had his head in hands, his posture slumped and despairing. “I’m sorry, Cullen.”

Cullen flinched, then said, “No, Dorian, I’m sorry, I should have--I’ve been foolish and--I’ll just go--”

“No!” Dorian’s hand shot out to wrap around Cullen’s wrist. “No, Cullen, please, just let me explain.”

Cullen settled back onto the bed, wanting to reach out towards Dorian but unsure if it would be appreciated. 

“Tevinter is…very traditional,” Dorian said. He relaxed his grip on Cullen’s wrist but did not let go completely. “In other countries, people might marry and have children. But in Tevinter, the focus is always on breeding the perfect mage.”

_Breeding the perfect mage?_ Cullen though, his nose wrinkling. _As if they’re talking about a prized mabari bloodline._

Dorian noticed his expression and smiled ruefully. “A rather distressing term when applied to people, yes, but that’s what it is. And as a son of a magister, I am expected to carry on the Pavus bloodline and sire lots of little Dorians for the good of Tevinter, whether I want that or not. It’s not unlike the pressure your own nobles are under, I suppose.”

“And you didn’t want it,” Cullen guessed, finally understanding why Dorian had suddenly become so skittish.

“Not a bit of it.” Dorian sighed, his thumb resting on the pulse point at Cullen’s wrist. “I supposed I could have gone ahead with it, married the girl, and kept a harem of lovers on the side. I wouldn’t be the first magister to do it. But even Orlesians are allowed to take their masks off; mine would stay on forever. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, and so I left.”

“Your parents-”

“Do not agree with that decision,” Dorian said, his voice clipped and tight. “Let’s leave it at that for now, shall we?” 

Hesitantly, Cullen stroked his fingers across the skin of Dorian’s arm. It was smooth and soft, unscarred. Dorian smiled at him gently and squeezed his wrist.

“If it makes you uncomfortable,” Cullen began, “I can stop f-flirting, I’m perfectly happy to just have your friendship-”

“I’d like a good deal more from you than friendship,” Dorian said, and for a moment he was as rakish and fearless as ever. Then his smile faded and he said, “But here, in this city, in this house? I feel safer with the mask on.”

Cullen nodded. “I understand.” His fingers stroked Dorian’s skin one more time before he got up. “If there’s anything that I can do to help, please let me know, all right? I know…well, I know this has been hard for you. I want to make things easier, if I can.”

Dorian smiled at him and darted forward suddenly. He gave Cullen a peck on the cheek, brief and chaste. The look in his eyes was the exact opposite of chaste. “Hold onto that for me until we get out of Tevinter, will you?”

Unfortunately, the warm glow that came from knowing Dorian reciprocated his feelings (at least, some of his feelings. The dream about settling down on a farm with 50 mabari puppies was probably unique to him) couldn’t quite stand up to the night terrors that visited Cullen regardless of how happy his waking hours were. When he laid down to sleep, his dreams greeted him with memories better left forgotten.

At a few minutes past three in the morning, Cullen jerked awake, his mind full of fading horrors. He could taste his own fear in the back of his throat, acrid and burning, and it was followed by the remembered taste of lyrium, cool and blue. He sighed harshly through his nose and reached for the vial of elfroot that he kept near him at all times. Tonight, it was perched on the nightstand like a wholly inadequate guardian against bad dreams.

He’d found, through months of trial and error, that taking elfroot and other medicines that dulled the pain quickly could alleviate some of the worst symptoms of withdrawal when they flared up. There would still be headaches and muscle cramps and shortness of breath, but they would be annoying rather than crippling. Granted, he was now worried about what would happen if he built up a tolerance to elfroot, but one thing at a time. He did not mind being an experimental subject if it meant that other Templars would not suffer as he had.

Speaking of experiments, he had promised Dagna to write down the effects, if any, of being around so much magic while withdrawing from lyrium. To be honest, he wasn’t sure that there would be any. If the withdrawals became worse, it would likely be due to his own mind tossing up memories of the Circles and what it felt like when magic hummed through the air all around him. But he would write it down anyway; Dagna had been very kind to him, suggesting a variety of remedies that might ease his aches and pains. Granted, she’d also mentioned an interest in looking at his brain if he should die sometime soon, but Cullen had learned to accept certain terrifying eccentricities. 

Dagna had been the one to explain why the withdrawals lasted so long, why he was still having physical cravings years after he’d stopped taking the lyrium.

“It gets into your bones,” she’d explained, gesturing with a small glass beaker full of something doubtlessly explosive. “The red stuff accelerates the effect, makes it happen in weeks, not years, but the blue does it too. When you stop taking it, your body starts using up its own stores of it, kind of like people who are starving start losing fat and muscle. Hence the pain and spasms and all of that other nasty stuff. But actually clearing it all out is a really slow process.” Perhaps she’d seen the despairing look on his face, because she had quickly added, “But the bright side is, you might still be able to toss out a couple Templar powers if things get dire enough.”

Cullen rolled the bottle of elfroot between his fingers, staring out the window into the dark, strange shadows of the gardens. It hadn’t been a comfort at the time, but knowing now that he might have a few _Silences_ and smites left in him was profoundly comforting. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need them. But this was Tevinter, and it never hurt to be prepared.

***  
The next morning, he found Varric and Vivienne seated at a balcony overlooking the gardens. Vivienne was calmly buttering a roll, while Varric had torn one to shreds and was flicking the pieces at the peacock below them. 

“Never took you for a bird lover, Varric,” Cullen said, settling into a chair with a bleary huff of breath. He had managed another hour and a half of sleep last night, but it had been interspersed with nightmares and restlessness.

“I’m not,” Varric groused. “This bird screams if he’s not being fed, and it was either give him a roll or suffer a headache.”

“Feeding it will only encourage its behavior,” Vivienne said, tsking as Varric tossed more crumbs towards the peacock. “You just have to be stern with it.”

“I’m not trying to raise it right and make it a responsible citizen, I just want to finish my damned breakfast in peace.”

“If the peacocks get fat, we’ll blame the Venatori,” Cullen said, reaching for a roll. They were warm, clearly fresh from the oven, and the smell was heavenly. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that they had doubtlessly been baked by slaves. His stomach was already weak thanks to the lyrium withdrawals, and he needed to keep at least a bit of food down. 

“Speaking of the Venatori, I haven’t had contact with any of Red’s agents since we reached the outer parts of the city,” Varric said, his expression grim. “I’m hoping that no news means good news, but knowing our luck?”

“Dorian’s father says they’re in the city and circling the Magisterium, metaphorically,” Cullen stuffed half a roll in his mouth, only belatedly realizing that inhaling his food wasn’t especially polite when Vivienne shot him a cutting look. _Woe to whichever poor Knight-Commander ends up in a Circle with her_ , Cullen thought, hastily swallowing. With his mouth free of food, he added, “Or possibly literally. I don’t know how blood magic works.”

“What’s this about my father?”

“Oh, er, we had a conversation while I was oversee-”

Cullen trailed off as he turned to face Dorian and actually got a good look at him. _Oh._

“You look like you kick puppies for a living, Sparkler.” Varric was apparently not quite as impressed as Cullen.

And Dorian _was_ impressive, dressed in the dramatic blacks and golds that Cullen had come to associate with Tevinter at its most sinister. Even his robes were sharper and more dangerous-looking, clearly designed to seem predatory. With his mustache waxed and the kohl around his eyes carefully applied, he radiated power and control.

Cullen was more than a little embarrassed by how attractive he found it all.

“Puppy-kicking is all the rage during the winter months here,” Dorian said, taking a seat across from Cullen. He sent a smirk the commander’s way. “Trying to catch flies?”

Cullen abruptly realized that his mouth was actually hanging open a bit and shut it with an audible snap.

“Your new outfit is rather striking, dear,” Vivienne said, as unperturbed as ever. “What motivated this change in styles?”

“I have business around the city that will be much easier if I can blend in,” Dorian said. He didn’t reach for any of the food himself, and Cullen wondered if he had eaten at all since they’d arrived. “One more handsome, sinister mage won’t cause much notice in Minrathous.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Cullen said. “Your father believes there are Venatori in the city and seems to think they may be readying themselves for something.”

“If there are Venatori in the city, that makes my errands all the more urgent,” Dorian replied. 

“And so you shouldn’t go alone, in case you get careless.”

“Careless?” Dorian arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I’ll have you know that I’m never careless. Fashionably cavalier, yes, but never-”

“I’ll go with you.” 

“Absolutely not.” Dorian pointed at him. “You’re a man of many talents, but stealth is not one of them.”

Cullen didn’t argue, because it wasn’t as if Templars were trained to be especially stealthy. Stealth and full armor weren’t compatible. Instead, he changed tactics. “Fine, then go with Vivienne.”

“Our Vivienne has never stepped into a room without drawing all eyes to her, and that will still be the case in Minrathous.”

“Why thank you, my dear,” Vivienne said. She was watching their argument the way a housecat perched on a high ledge would watch the children playing below her. “And I agree; spycraft is not my forte.”

“Then take Varric,” Cullen said. “He loves being sneaky.”

“He also loves being volunteered for things,” Varric interjected. “Although honestly, I’m siding with Curly on this one. You’re clearly up to something, and you need backup.”

“Fine,” Dorian sighed, “Varric may come. There are enough surface dwarves in the city that he shouldn’t draw much attention.”

“Good,” said Cullen, feeling very pleased with himself. “Now have a blueberry scone.”

Later, as they watched Dorian and Varric depart from the relative safety of the Pavus estate, Vivienne said, “While your business is of course your own, Commander, may I point out that Dorian is a grown man and capable of taking care of himself?”

“The Inquisitor is a grown woman capable of taking care of herself, and yet she was mysteriously inundated with small Orlesian cakes after we arrived at Skyhold,” Cullen said, leaning against the balustrade and watching the shrinking figures of Dorian and Varric.

“Those are very different scenarios,” Vivienne said, leaning against a pillar and turning to face him more fully.

“Not really.” Cullen finally tore his eyes away from Dorian and looked to Vivienne. “When you care about someone, you take care of them in whatever ways you can. Sometimes that means giving them their favorite dessert after darkspawn magister burns their home to ashes, and sometimes that means making sure that someone is looking out for them.”

Vivienne tilted her head, expression inscrutable for a moment. Then she smiled. It was one of the few smiles she had ever treated Cullen to, and he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to earn it.

***  
A part of Cullen (not a large part, but a very socially lazy part) hoped that Dorian and Varric would be harmlessly detained by some task or another. It would give him an excuse not to go to the ball being thrown in the Inquisition’s honor that night. The Winter Palace had been more than enough for one lifetime, after all. But Dorian and Varric arrived safely just as evening was starting to fall and Cullen was beginning to worry.

“I’d never miss a party where I’m to be the center of attention,” Dorian said, brushing past Cullen very deliberately. His robes smelled like the salt air of the ocean.

Distraction came in the form of his wardrobe for the evening. Cullen had paid very little attention when arrangements were being made for the trip, and had barely stood still for the tailor who came to take his measurements. He had known that they would not be wearing the same formal uniforms that they’d worn to Halamshiral because, according to Dorian, “in Tevinter, the only people who wear the same outfit to two different parties are the people who can’t afford more than one set of clothes.” But he hadn’t given much thought to the new uniform. If it could be called a uniform at all.

It was something Dorian could have worn effortlessly. In fact, it quite resembled one of his outfits. The top was a complicated collection of leather and buckles, ranging in shades from pale yellow to deep, emerald green. One shoulder was completely bare, and as Cullen put it on, he realized that quite a bit of his pectoral muscle was visible. He sighed and sent up a prayer to the Maker that everyone would be too snobby to flirt with him. 

The trousers were better. They were leather but covered his legs completely, no odd cut-outs or diamond-studded codpieces to be found. The dark green shade didn’t clash with his shirt, so at least his clothes would match. That was as far as his understanding of clothing went. He felt ridiculous, but their outfits had received stamps of approval from Josephine, Vivienne, several of the Inquisitor’s top tailors, and Dorian; it was safe to assume he was currently the height of fashion.

Behind him, the door opened, and Dorian greeted him with a whistle. “Well, well. Tevinter looks good on you, Commander.”

Cullen snorted. “I feel like my nipple is about to pop out.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Dorian was dressed in blue and grey leather, with sweeping, swirling patterns embossed across his chest, arms, and back. The collar of his jacket was made of a shimmering blue fabric that trailed down his chest in two long, thick ribbons of fabric that twined around his torso. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful.

“Y-you look very nice,” Cullen said, coughing to cover up the way his tongue tripped over the words.

“Of course I do. Even when Cadash is dragging me through some wretched swamp, I look fantastic.” Dorian reached out to adjust a buckle on Cullen’s chest. “Try not to look so sour, your face might stick like that.”

“Perhaps it will keep away anyone feeling flirtatious tonight,” Cullen said, memories of Halamshiral dancing behind his eyes. “Are you going to tell me what you and Varric were up to this afternoon?”

Dorian said nothing for a moment, continuing to straighten out Cullen’s shirt. It was only once he was convinced that Cullen was immaculate that he said, “Insurance.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t anticipate it will be needed tonight,” Dorian said. “The Archon and half the magisterium will be at the ball; they’d have to be suicidal to attack. This is a trial run, shall we say.”

“What kind of insurance are we discussing here?” Cullen asked, crossing his arms and trying to ignore the feeling of cold metal on his bare chest.

“I’ve mentioned my dear friend Maevaris, have I not? She’s been doing the legwork of gathering mages from the lower classes, as well as recruiting allies amongst the _soporati_. Several of them will be in attendance tonight. All very discretely, of course.” Dorian flashed him a smile. “This cloak-and-dagger business is actually quite fun, I can see why Leliana enjoys it so much.”

“You got us our very own spies and backup,” Cullen said, a smile spreading across his face as well. “Dorian, whenever you decide to stay in Tevinter permanently, you’ll do incredible work.”

Dorian actually looked _flustered_ for a moment. “You flatter me.”

“You love flattery.”

“That’s true, I do.” Regaining his composure, Dorian finally stopped fussing with Cullen’s outfit and instead gestured to the door with a grandiose sweep of his arm. “Well then, Commander, shall we go make nice with the magisters and blood mages?”

“You take me to the nicest places.”

***  
It was startlingly similar to Halamshiral. Everyone was devastatingly smug, wealthy enough to be utterly detached from normal life, and several of them were quite handsy. Cullen was overwhelmed by déjà vu, in fact, and it must have shown on his face. Vivienne (resplendent in a white and gold dress) leaned in and murmured, “Parties amongst the rich and powerful all bleed together once you attend enough of them, dear. Just try to keep a stiff upper lip.”

It was solid enough advice, and Cullen was happy to follow it. His plan was made much easier by Varric, who took one look at several of the dwarven guests and blanched.

“Shit, House Helmi. They keep trying to marry me off to the youngest daughter. Curly, shield me with your body and pretend we’re deep in conversation.”

This actually worked out perfectly, as Vivienne, Dorian, and the Inquisition’s ambassadors received the lion’s share of attention from the gathered magisters. Dwarves were a copper a dozen in the Imperium, and since Cullen was not a mage, he made for a far less enticing romantic prospect. (He still received a few offers, but they were generally of the “Ser, would you like to come into this bedroom with me to admire some art?” variety, and his suitors dispersed quickly once Cullen said no.) By adopting very intent and serious expressions, Cullen and Varric were able to hide in a secluded corner and spend the better part of an hour arguing over who would win in a fight: an Iron Bull who had grown to the size of a dragon, or hundreds of draonglings the size that Iron Bull was at present.

The only snag in the plan came when Varric left to relieve himself and Cullen warily ventured over to the buffet tables, practically groaning beneath the weight of so much food. Tevinters liked their meals spicy, and Cullen had a typical Ferelden aversion to anything stronger than salt and pepper. He was examining a platter of roasted duck that looked promising when a voice across the table sneered, “Well, well. The ex-Templar Commander himself.”

Cullen looked up to a man in Templar armor glaring at him. It was not the Templar armor of the South (much spikier, and also darker. Did everything in Tevinter have to look sinister?), but there was no mistaking the flaming sword across his chest. 

“I’d respond in kind, except I can’t quite recall who you are,” Cullen said, plastering an obviously fake smile across his face.

“Knight-Captain Livius Drusus,” the Templar said. He was a large man, standing a full head over Cullen, and he had a mean, red-eyed look that spoke of little sleep and a short temper. “Here on behalf of the Templar Order.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Cullen said, unsure what the man wanted with him. He did not seem to be approaching in the spirit of sacred brotherhood and all that.

“Likewise,” Drusus said, with the same amount of sincerity. “I was surprised to hear that you would venture this far north, considering how you’ve forsaken your vows.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. When he was younger and still burned with helpless, misplaced anger, he might have taken the bait that Drusus was dangling in front of him. But he was older, a bit wiser, and wearing a strange leather outfit. “Ser, whatever reaction you’re hoping for, I won’t be giving it to you. Given that you’ve never served in the southern Chantry and I’ve never served in Tevinter’s, I’m not sure the two of us have much in common. Although if you’d like to debate the merits of the Order’s lifetime vow, I’d be happy to have that discussion. But not here.”

Drusus narrowed his eyes (very bloodshot, did the man have a drinking problem? Leliana would probably know just by looking) and turned on his heel without a word. He nearly shoved his way through the gathered crowd, in fact.

_What a charming man_ , Cullen thought, returning his gaze to the table. He’d try the duck. That seemed safe.

The duck, as it turned out, was not safe at all, and Cullen spent most of the next twenty minutes guzzling water. Why did the Tevinter chefs cook with so many peppers? Was his mouth ever going to stop burning?

“Are you crying? You’re crying,” Varric laughed, slapping him on the back.

“It burns like fire, you arse,” Cullen coughed, trying to clear his watering eyes. “What have you been eating all night?”

Whatever Varric was about to say was drowned out by a blare of horns. They both looked up to see Archon Radonis himself arriving, fashionably late according to Tevinter custom. He was a stern but handsome man, with skin a little lighter than Dorian’s and hair that was beginning to go grey at the temples. The staff across his back was carved to resemble a snarling dragon, with rubies for eyes and onyx teeth. He reminded Cullen a bit of the late First Enchanter Orsino, actually; powerful, dangerous, and beset on all sides by people hoping he would fall.

Cullen watched as the Archon moved through the room, greeting the assembled magisters before he reached the cluster of Inquisition ambassadors. Every eye in the room was on them. Dorian strode forward to bow to the Archon, and the two appeared to exchange all the usual pleasantries. If Dorian was nervous about meeting the ruler of his country on behalf of the Inquisition, he didn’t show it. 

The Archon leaned forward, murmuring something into Dorian’s ear. Cullen was too far across the room to hear or even try to read his lips, but whatever he said made Dorian’s smile falter, just for a moment. He regained control of himself quickly, all smiles once more, but Cullen couldn’t help but worry.

Once the Archon had moved on, Dorian scanned the room before locking eyes with Cullen. Cullen gave a little wave, and Dorian’s expression softened. Then he was headed towards them, moving through the crowd with a grace borne from spending his entire childhood navigating massive parties. When he finally reached the small group of chairs that Varric and Cullen had claimed for themselves, he said, “Commander, might I borrow you for a moment?”

“Of course,” Cullen said, standing up quickly and wiping at his face. Hopefully it wasn’t a complete wreck. “Varric, go and use Vivienne as your human shield.”

Varric groaned but didn’t otherwise complain as Dorian nearly dragged Cullen away. Cullen certainly didn’t complain as Dorian led him out of the ballroom and up into one of the secluded balconies overlooking the ocean. The cool, salty air was a welcome relief compared to the stuffy heat of the ballroom, and Cullen took a grateful breath to clear his lungs. Dorian scanned the balcony to ensure they were alone. Music and conversation still drifted up from the ballroom and gardens below them, but they had the balcony to themselves.

“You looked as if you could use a break,” Dorian said, leaning against the railing next to Cullen.

“Varric and I have mostly been hiding,” Cullen admitted. “So far, neither of us are unwillingly betrothed, so it’s been a successful evening so far.”

“And no one’s been stabbed, so it’s a rather sedate party, by Tevinter standards.”

For a moment, the two of them just enjoyed the breeze. But Cullen had to ask, “What did the Archon say to you?”

Dorian smoothed a hand over his face, careful not to disturb his mustache or kohl. “He said that he’d heard very much about me. That he’d be interested in hearing about my ideas.”

“That’s good, yes?” Cullen asked. “Unless that’s common Tevinter parlance for ‘hush or I’ll kill you’.”

Dorian laughed. “No, no, I think he might actually be interested. That’s terrifying all on its own. I’m very used to scorn, and not so used to being taken seriously.”

“With the Venatori circling, maybe the Archon would like to see the exact opposite of them.”

Dorian smiled at him, his expression soft and unusually open. Below them, the musicians began a new song. He tilted his head and then held out a hand. “Dance with me.”

Cullen started, nearly losing his balance. “What? But, I mean, I thought that you-”

“Yes, yes, keeping the mask on,” Dorian said, waving his outstretched hand dismissively. “I’ve had the mask firmly on for this entire party, making nice with people I’d rather spit on. Let me take it off for a few moments.”

Well, phrased like that, how could Cullen say no? He stepped forward and let his hand rest on Dorian’s hip. “I-I’m not much of a dancer, I must warn you.”

Dorian’s hand was warm in his. “Never fear, Commander. I’ll lead.”

Unlike Cullen, Dorian was an exceptional dancer, talented enough to keep his toes out from under Cullen’s feet. His body was _hot_ against Cullen’s, like Dorian’s temperature ran several degrees warmer simply by nature. It made Cullen shiver and hold Dorian that much tighter.

The music was something light and fast, and apparently an old Tevinter favorite, given the way Dorian was humming each note as he guided them along the balcony. The strips of fabric he wore fluttered around them like butterflies or loose feathers, occasionally winding around Cullen’s hips or legs. Cullen wasn’t sure where to look. Staring Dorian in the eye made him blush, and resting his gaze on Dorian’s mouth made him blush even harder.

It was not, Cullen reflected, a terrible problem to have.

“We might make a dancer out of you yet,” Dorian said, executing a particularly complicated spin.

Cullen smiled, small and soft. “You know, you can often hear the tavern music from my office in Skyhold. If you’d like to help me p-practice a bit more.”

Dorian laughed, his expression fond. “How very suave of you.”

“That’s me,” Cullen said, smiling wider. “The suavest.”

The music ended and they stayed pressed against each other. For one breathless moment, Cullen thought Dorian was going to lean in for a kiss, and he held his breath in anticipation. Time stood still, and then Dorian sighed deeply and stepped back.

“Back to the games, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling even while his eyes were sad.

Cullen stepped forward, impulsive and not quite sure of what he was doing. He took Dorian’s hand again (callused where he held his staff) and kissed his knuckles gently. Not looking up, he said, “Thank you for the dance.” 

Dorian’s voice wobbled just a tad as he replied, “No, thank you.”

As Dorian slipped away into the crowds, Cullen tried to keep the silly grin off his face, but it was a challenge. He felt light and happy and damn near bubbly. He was so besotted, Maker help him.

Cullen was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t even notice as someone stepped towards him. He ended up running headlong into the approaching person, his shoulder banging hard into armor. _Knight-Captain Drusus_ , Cullen realized, as he straightened and instinctively excused himself.

At first he thought the musicians had started a new song, something deep and unpleasantly like a heartbeat. But then he realized that no, this music wasn’t coming from any instrument. He was hearing it inside his head, the sinister tempo slipping in between his thoughts.

Red lyrium.

_“You’re pretty sensitive to lyrium since you’re withdrawing,” Dagna had told him once, gently pulling a nail-thin sliver of red lyrium out of Samson’s arm. “Most people have to be around it for an hour or so before it starts to sing. But you hear it so quickly!”_

_Samson had glanced up at him with bloodshot eyes and quirked lips. “So don’t put this in your mouth, Rutherford.”_

Knight-Captain Drusus was carrying red lyrium, and quite a lot of it.

Cullen straightened carefully, stepping back from Drusus and fixing him with a tense gaze. “Can I help you?”

Drusus, apparently unaware that Cullen could hear the lyrium singing beneath his skin, offered a tight smile. “I wanted to apologize, Commander Rutherford. Things in the Order have been…well, they’ve been difficult since the South fell to chaos. And I’ve had a bit too much to drink tonight. It makes me say all manner of crass things.” There was no wine on his breath. He held out his hand to shake. “Bygones?”

“Of course,” Cullen said, taking the man’s hand in a firm grip. Once he made contact, the song _soared_ , high and deep and too slow and too fast. The song was like leaping off a cliff towards water far below, his stomach dropping and blood pounding. How had Samson withstood this? How had he ever functioned without it?

_Wicked Grace face, Rutherford_ , he told himself, the mental voice suspiciously like Varric’s. Red lyrium within the Tevinter Templars meant the order had been infiltrated. The Knight-Captain being riddled with it meant they had been infiltrated very thoroughly. Cullen glanced across the ballroom, noticing the gleam of Templar armor near all the doorways, ostensibly as security. 

Whatever remained of the Venatori were here in force.

“If you’d like, I can show you around the Magisterium?” Drusus offered, doing an admirable job of seeming sheepish. “Our hall here has relics from half a dozen battles, and we rarely get to show them off.”

They wanted him separated from the group, so they were making their move soon.

“I’d like that very much, actually,” Cullen said, offering what Cadash liked to call his ‘aw shucks Fereldan farmboy’ smile. “Although I promised Madame Vivienne a dance, and I believe the musicians are scheduled to go on break soon. Let me appease her before we go, or I’ll never hear the end of it. You know how mages who want to get their way are.”

“Of course, of course,” Drusus laughed, waving him off.

The song became fainter the further he got from Drusus, and Cullen was glad for it. It was so _loud_ , bloody and howling. He made a beeline towards Vivienne, who was holding court with a large group of admirers in the northern corner of the ballroom.

“Vivienne!” Cullen said, far more jovial and familiar than he would ever be with her normally. “Would you care for a dance?”

Vivienne's sole concession towards the strangeness of the situation was to raise her eyebrow. Then she swept forward, all smiles. “Of course, Commander. You know how I love to dance.”

As they walked arm in arm towards the dancefloor in the center of the ballroom, Vivienne never lost her calm smile as she asked, “Have you been enchanted or hit on the head?”

“I’m going to step on your toes, I’m so sorry,” Cullen said, his voice strained while he kept his cheerful expression. “The Venatori are here.”

“Ah.” The dance began, and Cullen had no idea what to do. Vivienne pushed him forward gently. “Follow my lead, dear. How do you know?”

The music would cover their conversation. “The Templar captain has red lyrium. I can hear it singing.”

Vivienne’s gaze sharpened. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He clumsily twirled her. “I met him earlier, across a table. I couldn’t hear it then. It wasn’t until I literally ran into him that I could hear it. He’s riddled with the stuff.”

“Are you being watched?” she leaned close, resting her chin on his shoulder as part of the dance. It was oddly like being hugged.

“Yes.” He dipped her, being _very_ careful not to drop her. “I’m going with him after this dance. Find Varric and Dorian. They can alert the Archon’s troops, and Dorian’s spies.”

“I’m sure I can find an excuse to keep you here,” Vivienne said, her dress sweeping the floor behind her with each step. As Cullen trod on her feet for the third time, she didn’t even wince.

“I want to know what they want. And if they’re distracted by me, the rest of you will have more time to prepare.”

The dance ended, and they bowed to each other. Vivienne murmured, “Keep them talking. They’re Tevinter, it shouldn’t be difficult.”

Cullen snorted and kissed her knuckles, the gesture considerably more perfunctory than it had been with Dorian. “I’ll do my best.”

And then he turned away, squared his shoulders, and headed towards Drusus.  
***

Drusus, in an admirable attempt to keep up his cover, was in fact giving Cullen an abridged version of the Tevinter Templar Order’s history as they walked deeper into the building. Cullen, in an attempt to buy time, was walking very slowly and pretending to be slightly drunk. The combined effect was a very slow progression into the southeastern wing of the Magisterium’s chambers, during which Cullen learned some genuinely interesting trivia about Tevinter and had to stop himself from fingering the knife hidden up his sleeve.

“Oh, this is the banner hall, it’s very interesting.” Drusus’ voice cracked slightly, the lie a little too big to spit out. “Come in, come in.”

Drusus held the door open. Cullen glibly stepped in and then immediately dodged the blow he’d known was coming.

He whirled and let the knife slip down his sleeve, lashing out at whoever was unfortunate enough to be lunging for him.

“ _Fasta vass!_ ” the Venatori mage hissed, staggering backward and into Drusus. “He has a knife!”

Drusus growled something uncomplimentary in Tevene and darted towards Cullen, only to be bounced off the wall as Cullen dodged and shoved him. In the darkness, the red in his eyes _glowed_ slightly.

“Red lyrium,” Cullen panted, ignoring the way it sang to him. “You bloody fucking idiot, do you know what that does to you?”

“You’ll be finding out firsthand,” the bleeding mage growled, nursing the cut on his arm with a slight whimper. 

“The general of the Red Templars is sitting in a cell in Skyhold,” Cullen said, not taking his eyes off Drusus and his sword. “He would tell you to stand down.”

Samson would, too. Once Cullen had made it clear that he’d like to rehabilitate the Red Templars who could be saved and give the ones who couldn’t an easy death, Samson had become considerably more cooperative. He was more like the man Cullen knew in Kirkwall, and seeing the change was bittersweet.

“I don’t follow the orders of cowards and traitors,” Drusus growled, grabbing for Cullen again. He was in full armor, so Cullen had the advantage when it came to speed. The room wasn’t that large, however, and it wasn’t as though Cullen could leap up onto the second floor above them. Eventually they would box him in, especially once the mage stopped whining and started shooting fire.

“You barely follow orders at all,” came a third voice, echoing slightly as its owner entered the room. Another mage, judging by the staff. He gestured sharply, the glow of magic dancing around his fingers, and the other mage screamed suddenly.

_Blood magic_ , Cullen realized, cursing as Drusus used his distraction to toss him backwards. He got his feet under him only to suddenly feel a splash of warm fluid across his face. It smelled coppery, and he understood with a surge of nausea that he’d been hit with the mage’s blood.

Suddenly, his body locked up. His muscles would not move, his limbs remaining frozen and heavy no matter how frantically Cullen tried to struggle. Even his lungs were slowing down, the magic keeping Cullen pinned like a butterfly under glass, forcing his body under the mage’s control. His knees buckled and he went to the ground, kneeling obediently even as his mind screamed at him to move.

“I said to do this quietly,” the blood mage said, drawing closer to Cullen as it became clear he was under control. “Do you truly think you can send the Commander of the Inquisition back into the ballroom covered in blood and bruises? Idiot.”

“He was trying to stab us, what would you have me do?!” Drusus snapped, kicking at Cullen’s side. Trapped in his own body, Cullen wasn’t even able to flinch.

“I expect you to handle the situation with some degree of intelligence,” the blood mage snarled back. “We can hardly use him as a puppet if everyone suspects he’s been compromised.”

Cullen nearly broke loose at that, panicking so intensely that he surged forward. The blood mage tightened his grip, his magic an almost painful weight against Cullen’s muscles and bones. Even his tendons ached, as if he’d contorted himself into some painful position. He couldn’t break loose.

“Get the lyrium,” the mage ordered. “He’ll settle once he’s had some.”

No, _no_! Heart pounding in terror, Cullen reached down into himself for the abilities he hadn’t used in years. There was nothing there, save for a faint glow of dim blue power that might not even be enough. But he had to try. All he needed was one solid smite and-

Without warning, Drusus’ head _exploded_.

Both mages screamed, casting twin fireballs out into the darkness. Above them, on the second story, Cullen heard the familiar sound of Bianca being reloaded.

“Sorry to interrupt, boys,” Varric said, sending a storm of arrows down towards them. “I just have this thing about red lyrium and anyone stupid enough to use it.”

“There, he’s up there!” the blood mage howled. He was distracted enough that his grip on Cullen’s body loosened, just a little, enough for Cullen to drag himself towards the wall and out of Varric’s line of fire. In front of him, the first mage collapsed, three arrows sticking out of his chest.

The blood mage was still shouting, some casting fireballs so recklessly that it was a wonder the building didn’t catch fire. “ _Falgard!_ Hold still, you-”

There was a sound like ice tinkling gently against the side of a glass. The Venatori let out a gurgle, clawed at his throat, and then collapsed to his knees before falling over completely. The magic holding Cullen vanished, like a great weight had suddenly been released. Vivienne stepped into the room, the end of her staff glowing a rapidly fading blue. Cullen stood up and saw that the blood mage had an absolutely massive shard of ice sticking out of his back.

“Excellent timing,” Cullen coughed, nearly twitching with nervous energy. He wanted to flex, to move every muscle he had to reassure himself that he was still in control. He settled for stretching out his arms and kneeling to grab Drusus’ abandoned sword.

“We’d have come earlier, but the Venatori made an attempt on the Archon’s life,” Vivienne said, stepping delicately over a corpse. “It’s safe to say they were not expecting him to be forewarned.”

“Where’s Dorian?” Cullen asked, tugging a decorative shield off the wall. Not the best metal, but it would block a fireball.

“Sparkler’s covering the Archon’s escape,” Varric said, still safely perched on the floor above. “They were leaving through the main entrance hall.”

“I’ll see if he needs backup,” Cullen said. “You two, make sure the Venatori don’t sneak up behind us.”

Then he was off and running, tearing down the hall and crushing the expensive carpeting with a sense of glee. Belatedly, he realized Vivienne probably wouldn’t appreciate being given orders, but he’d make his apologies later. He had Venatori to kill and a few more Red Templars to put down.

He found Dorian and the Archon pinned down in opposite cornera of the main entryway. The Archon’s mages were doing a good job of holding the combined forces of the Venatori and the Red Templars at bay, but it was clear they couldn’t hold out forever. A squadron of Templars were bearing down on them, slowly but surely grinding forward. Dorian was trapped on the other end of the hall, sending out waves of fire in all directions toward the mages that surrounded him.

Cullen gripped his sword a little tighter before taking a flying leap down the stairs, bringing his blade down on the shoulder of an unsuspecting Venatori. 

“Glad you could rejoin the party, Cullen!” Dorian shouted, letting the barrier around him flicker just a bit so Cullen could take cover behind it.

“Someone’s been stabbed,” Cullen said, raising his shield to deflect a blast of ice. “Several someones. The party’s over, I think.”

“Nonsense, this is perfectly typical!” Dorian laughed, eyes wild and bright as he sent a barrage of flames towards a cluster of Venatori.

Together, they slowed the Venatori forces to a crawl. But across the hall, the Templars were still closing in on the Archon. If Cullen and Dorian could cross the room and bolster the Archon’s forces, they might be able to get him out the door and safely out of Venatori hands. Cullen tallied up the number of mages near him; most of the Venatori were within range. If he could eliminate them and get to the Templars…

He glanced at Dorian, pleased to see he’d brought the staff with an enormous blade on one end. That would come in handy.

“Dorian!” Cullen shouted, going still as he reached inside himself once more. “Apologies!”

“What? What are you-”

The spell purge was not one of Cullen’s strongest, nor was the Smite that followed it. He could remember how the lyrium had made it so easy to nullify even the strongest magic. It had burst from him, back then. Now, he had to force it, and it _hurt_ , a strange, bone-deep pain that made Cullen’s vision go black for a moment.

But when it cleared, Cullen saw the very welcome sight of the Venatori mages staring at their staffs in bafflement. They tried to cast, failed, and gaped at Cullen as if he’d just grown tentacles.

Dorian laughed again, the sound breathless. “Oh, you bastard.”

And then he grabbed Cullen by the collar of his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss, in front of the Archon, a dozen magisters, and presumably the Maker Himself.

Cullen’s nerves were jangling too hard to feel much besides the pressure of Dorian’s lips, but as first kisses went, he still ranked it high.

“Never do that to me again,” Dorian said, releasing him and grinning savagely. Cullen grinned back. “Now help me save the Archon, would you?”

Without magic, the Venatori went down much, much easier.

***

The aftermath of the battle was this: three dead magisters (collateral damage), twenty-seven dead Venatori, an entire squadron of dead Templars (all glowing with red lyrium beneath their armor), five captured Venatori (four who surrendered, one who was caught hiding in a cupboard), and one very impressed Archon.

All in all, Cullen felt this diplomatic mission had gone exceedingly well.

Back at the Pavus Estate, the sun was creeping over the horizon in a slow, rosy wave. Vivienne had retired for the evening, and Varric had locked himself in his room to, as he put it, “write this shit down before I lose the details,” as if the story wouldn’t be full of embellishments regardless. Nevertheless, Cullen was fairly sure that he and Dorian wouldn’t be interrupted, and so he crept across the hall to knock on Dorian’s door once again.

“Come in!” 

In the dawn light, Dorian looked exhausted and highly satisfied. He was in a long, red dressing gown, sprawled in an armchair like a very content cat. “Ah, just the man I wanted to see. The Archon sends his compliments, by the way. He was especially impressed with how you beheaded two Templars at once.”

“They were too close together, a very common mistake,” Cullen said, sitting down on the bed across from Dorian. He held one hand behind his back, clutching his surprise in embarrassingly sweaty fingers. _No backing out_ , he told himself sternly. _Make your stupid, romantic gesture._ “I, uh, have something for you. For the Feast of Dragons or whatever it’s called.”

“I hope it’s not a decapitated head,” Dorian quipped, leaning forward anyway. He let his knee brush against Cullen’s. “And in all seriousness, you already gave me a gift.” At Cullen’s curious head tilt, Dorian explained, “I kissed a man in front of the rulers of Tevinter. There’ll be no forcing me back into hiding, no matter what my parents might prefer.”

Cullen smiled, unable to stop himself. “Ah. Well. My other gift is a little more…materialistic.”

“I love materialism, give it here!”

Cullen handed Dorian the small leather sack, watching in satisfaction as he opened it and was greeted with the sight of approximately three pounds of finely cut sapphires. “What in the world?”

“I took it off a dead Venatori,” Cullen said with a shrug. “Since we’re going to be here a few more days, I thought your spies might like to get paid. If Josephine has taught me anything, it’s that money is an excellent way to make new friends.”

“I…” Dorian looked away, hiding his expression. “You have less than six sets of clothes, you fool, you should keep this for yourself.”

“You helped save Ferelden,” Cullen said, reaching out to rest a hand on Dorian’s knee. “I thought I might help you save Tevinter.”

Dorian tossed the bag aside suddenly and lunged forward, pulling Cullen forward into his second kiss of the night.

This one lasted much, much longer than the first.


End file.
